


Saudade

by sreshtotha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Freeform-ish, Romance, Shit Actually Gets Done in Westeros, Slow Burn, Tragedy?, War, it's going PLACES, lots of brooding jon and caring dany because I'm lonely trash, really mostly jon having mental breakdowns and daenerys being concerned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:11:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sreshtotha/pseuds/sreshtotha
Summary: "Presenting Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver's Bay, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons," a female voice calls.The words echo through the silence, carried by the wind. Jon eyes this so-called queen.





	1. i

_Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,_  
_Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes._

**\- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 40.**

* * *

 

The first time he sees her, she is on one of her dragons – this one a towering monstrosity of red and black - and looking both a goddess and a beggar.

He's heard about her – this famed Mother of Dragons. Although the whispers paint a portrait of a warrior queen with eyes as cold as winter and wrath as mighty as her beasts; the woman before him is tired, to say the least, in ragged clothes that cling to her like sweat; unkempt and bloody. There is no crown upon her head, but as her beast lands on Castle Black, the men kneel anyway. It is not for her, he knows, but for those she calls her children.

"Presenting Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver's Bay, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons," a female voice calls. The words echo through the silence, carried by the wind. Jon eyes this so-called queen.

She dismounts her dragon with grace – far too much grace, he thinks – and walks toward him and his black brothers. There are others behind her, countless and bronzed, although noticeably scattered. _Her garrison_ , Jon realizes. _The ships. Of course, she_ is _a ruler of sorts._ He vaguely recalls hearing talk of armies, foreign men, fighters of the sands.  _Horseriders,_ is the distant idle thought as a stallion registers in his peripheral vision.

The rags do little to protect the woman -  _yes, woman,_ _as human as all the rest_  - from the fierce cold, but she manages to brave it nonetheless. When she walks, even the snows seem to bow. She is followed by an aged man in mail and three other men, copper-skinned and robust.

Around him, several Night's Watch men kneel; the others stand, awestruck by her dragons and some by her. It is not oft one sees a dragon in their lifetime, he muses, even more so three of them led by a woman.

She comes to a stop in front of him, and Jon cannot help but think how she is still standing in this bitter weather dressed in near-tatters. A proper lady (which, truth be told, he isn't sure what is) would have been bundled in as many cloaks as could be. She is not. Her silver-blonde hair is loosely tied back and gently flaps in the wind– almost like a banner.

Her voice is clear and commanding. The voice of a leader. "You are?"

"Jon Snow," he replies. Your Grace? "Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Her gaze is piercing, the violet vibrant. "Jon Snow." His name rolls off her tongue hesitantly, as though she is experimenting it. He wonders how much she knows of Westorosi customs – and of bastard names.

Her eyes dart over him and his black attire. "And who do you bow to, Lord Snow?"

Jon hesitates, cautiously eying her garrison and dragons. _Will she set them on us if we answer wrongly?_ The only man he has bowed to was his father, Eddard Stark – but he was now in the crypts of Winterfell. And Stannis, at a point. _Who do I bow to now? You?_

"I am a man of the Night's Watch, my lady," he concedes at long last, never breaking eye contact, "and I have sworn to hold no lands, no crowns, and no kings. I serve the Watch, and nothing more."

Her displease is evident, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. "I understand," she flatly replies. She looks over his shoulder, to his brothers in their various states. "And these are your men?"

"No, my brothers of black. We are the Night's Watch. Or what is left of it, at least." _The Others took the rest._ "We welcome you with open arms, my lady."

Her eyebrows rise and for the briefest moment, her steely gaze softens. "I . . . see. Allow me a moment, Lord Snow."

She strides over to the aged knight, and their conversation is hurried and terse. Jon hears voices murmur behind him:

"How long does she expect to keep us here?"

"Aye, she's a beauty –a beauty with dragons – but if she thinks she can keep us here as much she bloody likes, the whore's – "

A hush falls over when the Mother of Dragons returns. When their eyes lock, Jon sees the coldness slightly falter, and suddenly she is flesh, not fearless conqueror. When she speaks, it is kind yet authoritative, and her words ring through the silence.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Snow. We will be needing some warm beds, furs, food, and a bit of wine. And some meat, if there is any to be spared." There is a faint smile, almost of relief, on Daenerys Targaryen's lips. "We've travelled a long way, and my dragons are _hungry._ "

* * *

 

A day into her stay, he is summoned to her chambers.

Leading up to it is littered with excited chatter and whispers. The Watch is full of renewed vigor, something Jon finds so foreign, so unfamiliar. It is as if a dust has been lifted, this is the most alive some of them have felt in weeks.  _It has been too long._

Most speak of her unearthly beauty – "have you seen her eyes?!" – others of her fearful garrison – "I've seen 'em guard her room day and night, it's like those fuckers never sleep!" – but all of them bring up the same subject at a point or another – her dragons.

As he walks, brothers swarm him. Some cautious, afraid of provoking their lord, others with zeal. To them Jon is more than their Lord Commander and black brother; he is their friend. (Or _was_ , he somberly thinks. Those days are gone. _Kill the boy and let the man be born)._

"Do you think she's goin' to show you the dragons?"

"D'you think she'll show you what she wears under 'em horse savage rags?"

"Aye, wouldn't mind lettin' her ride me for the night—"

"M'lord—"

Jon is already ahead of them, and their voices are slowly fading away. As he climbs the rickety steps to the King's Tower, a feeling of dread fills him. He begins to remember a time he was summoned here - one of too many; there was an offer of legitimacy and a title to go with it. _What do you have for me, Daenerys Stormborn?_

She is deep in conversation with her knight when he enters, and they both turn towards him.

"Jon Snow," Daenerys says. "I was beginning to think you had refused my offer."

"Never, my lady." Long gone are the bloodied rags, the woman before him is draped in a fine crimson dress encrusted with rubies, the neck a deep gash that exposes skin, pale and creamy. Castle Black did not have an array of women's clothing to choose from, and this one is one of the Red Woman's, he notes. His stomach twists at the sight of it.

"Leave us, Ser Barristan," she tells her knight. The old man gives Jon a scathing look as he leaves the room, the door slamming. _He doesn't trust me,_ he realizes. _Of course, why would he? He knows what I am._

The last of the Targaryens stand before him in all her glory. Her gaze pierces him in ways no sword could. "Most bow before their queen," Daenerys comments almost innocently. "Although, I have an inkling that I am not yours."

Jon winces; of course, _why else would I be here?_

"Forgive me . . . Your Grace," he hastily mutters, looking down at his snow-covered boots. "We are sworn to bow to no kings or take any houses. The Night's Watch is – "

"I know what it is," she says, taking a step towards him. There is laughter _(or is it mockery?)_ in her voice. "Although I cannot say I am surprised. Why would a Stark ever kneel to a Targaryen?"

It feels like a slap to the face, a pail of cold water. Taken aback for a moment, he harshly retorts, "I am no Stark, Your Grace."

"No, you're not." She is standing in front of him now, and while they are not of a height, he still feels her breath on his face. _She smells of fire and sweetness,_ he ruefully thinks. There were only two people who smelt of that: one died with an arrow in her heart and the other... "But your father was. And they say sons take after their sires. So tell me again, Jon Snow – are you a Stark?"

_. . . when you return, you need only bend your knee, lay your sword at my feet, and pledge yourself to my service, and you shall rise again as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell . . ._

_Winterfell._ Winterfell with its cold stone walls and snow white grounds; the serene godswood and bustling halls. He can almost hear it all again. The ringing laughter, the clang of swords, the howl of wolves in the night – smiling faces, everywhere, as vivid as they once were. The smell of freshly baked bread, the feel of being tackled to the ground. Arya’s shrill laughter, Sansa’s shrieks of complaint and how _I’m going to tell Mother,_ Bran, Rickon, Robb— _home._

And yet no more. In his vision, the cool grey tentacles of the kraken writhe and flail, slick and shiny with red. They crawl through windows, the glass shattering into millions of pieces, and go through walls, leaving behind darkness. The stench of burning fills the air, and the wail of women and children accompany it. Bodies cook and Jon sees their skin melt, melt like blood on snow. The night spreads: slowly, and then all at once. The faces of joy crack like the kings in the crypts. He feels cold.

  _Winterfell is gone,_ Jon remembers. _There is nothing left but ghosts and ash._

The words come to him quicker than they should’ve. “My brothers were,” _Robb with snow melting in his hair,_ “and my sisters,” _Skinny little Arya and prim and proper Sansa,_ “ my lord father,” _We’ll talk when I return,_ “I cannot say for my lady mother. And my uncle,” _come north with me, Jon_. “There were all Starks, trueborn, with the blood of the First Men. But I am not, Your Grace.” The words cut him deeper than any sword could and blood gushes from the wound. “And I have no wish to be.”

_I gave it all up when I said the words._

There is silence. For what seems like hours, the queen does not speak. She simply eyes him, and Jon returns the gaze. She truly is beautiful, he notices. Apart from her commanding demeanor, her eyes are breathtaking, her body is one knights sing of, and she is as fierce as she is caring. _Like Ygritte._

_“D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave, Jon Snow. I told you so . . .”_

When she finally speaks, it is soft – as gentle as a whisper and kinder than he could have imagined, and the words she say burn themselves into his mind and light a fire in his chest; a childish, almost warm feeling he can't having remember felt for a long, long time.

“Have you ever ridden a dragon, Jon Snow?”      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! Thank you for reading. This has been something I've been working on for, give or take, five or so years... it's been written at varying points of my life and the canon (as I've read/watched/things have been released) so it will be full of book/show amalgamation and speculation and... wishfulness? Not going to be entirely linear. I don't know. I thought I'd make use of this somehow.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. This is the first time I'm trying out a different fanfiction site, ahah. Feedback would be appreciated. Let me know if you'd like more.
> 
> Much love.  
> \- S


	2. ii

They whisper about them. Never in front of him; no, no one would dare, but when his back is turned, they gossip and _giggle_ like giddy maidens.

He does not care, truth be told. He has other pressing matters – debts to be paid to the Iron Bank for one thing – and she is nothing more than a figure of authority to him. Like Stannis ( _you need only bend your knee)_ , he says his courtesies and bow when needed, but she isn’t his queen anymore than she is the realm’s.

He heeds her summons, drinks her wine, and even walks her around the grounds when she commands it. But when they speak, it is as commander and queen: cold, calculating, and impartial.

“Lord Snow,” she greets him when he meets her in her chambers that day. This time she is dressed in Dothraki garb: painted vest and sandsilk trousers. How she endures the cold, he cannot begin to fathom. A fire burns in the hearth, but the room is still chilly. She does not seem to notice nor mind.

“My lady,” he responds, dropping to a knee.

“You may rise.”

When he does, she calls for mulled wine. “Sit, Lord Snow,” she says, gesturing to one of the chairs.

“I would rather stand, Your Grace,” he stiffly replies. His eyes briefly slip to the various maps strewn over the desk. Stoic Ser Barristan is present, as always. Growing up, Jon had heard many a tale about the famed knight renowned as Barristan the Bold. Now, with the knight himself present in the flesh, he finds himself sometimes in awe, other times in fear. Ser Barristan never speaks to him directly, but the looks he gives are enough. _“Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the rest of the world will not. Make it your strength; then it can never be your weakness. Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you.”_

“As you wish.” Daenerys gives him a look he has curiously long grown accustomed to: a mixture between amusement and surprise. He does not return her gaze, instead choosing to scrutinize the Targaryen banner that hangs behind her.

Hastily sewn by Castle Black’s finest craftsmen (and by _men,_ he meant the only two who _could_ sew), it is not as massive as banners customarily were, but large enough to pass as a decent one. The ancient three-headed dragon lies formidable against the stark black. Most of his black brothers have said that they do not care for the “Targaryen whore”, but Jon feels as though her dragons had some part in this banner coming to fruition.

He clears his throat. “Your Grace, I was told you had matters to discuss.”

Her eyebrows quirk up, and the amused façade melts away. She becomes a queen in the blink of an eye. “Yes, I do. Tell me, Lord Snow, what do you know of this . . . Targaryen pretender rising in the east?”

 _Of course._ News of the one who has claimed to be Aegon VI risen from the dead have spread far and wide, of course it has to have reached the ears of the woman who has spent most of her life believing she is one of the last Targaryens. “Not a lot, my lady,” he answers cautiously. “My men have heard tales—”

“—and tales are seldom anything but tales,” she cuts in.

“Aye,” Jon says, knowing that he is trudging on thin ice, “and yet the things _I’ve_ heard . . . and the ravens we’ve received seem to say otherwise. The Wall may as isolated from the Seven Kingdoms as can be, but we are not deaf, Your Grace. We hear of sellswords landing everywhere from the Stepstones to Dorne to _Dragonstone_. Whoever this so-called pretender truly is . . . he is unfazed and held back by nothing.  The realm has never been more ripe for conquest, and he knows that.” He leaves things unsaid, but they are as well known as the rest. _If he is truly who he claims to be . . . then his claim is far stronger than yours._

Daenerys turns her back on him. Up close, her hair is silvery-blonde, nearly white, he sees. Today it is in a braid with bells softly jingling from its ends. It suits her, he finds himself musing.

“I have dragons,” she finally says. “This—this _pretender_ does not.”            

“So we’ve heard, my lady.”   _But if he does . . . gods save us all._

“There was another king here,” she says suddenly, whipping around to face him. “The Usurper’s brother, I’m told.”

_“ . . . and rise again, as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell.”_

No words come to him, and he stands silent. When he speaks, his voice is flat. “Yes,” Jon says. “King Stannis Baratheon occupied the King’s Tower for quite a period of time.”

“I thought the Night’s Watch held no king.”

“He wasn’t our king,” he manages, the words cutting him deeper than they should have. “He was—he . . . he helped us when we needed him to, and in return we helped him.”

“And what happened to this _king?”_ the Targaryen asks, curiously.

It is too much for him. He can feel hands tightening around his throat, suffocating him. A red sword slices through the darkness. The smell of fire fills his nostrils. Snake-like tendrils of ice crawl up his arms. Screams: terrible, loud, haunting. “ _Then you know nothing, Jon Snow.”_

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he chokes out in as much of a neutral tone as possible. “I – I would rather not speak of it.”

“Very well,” Daenerys says, her voice far softer than before. “Perhaps one day you will. I have no further need of you, Lord Snow, you are free to go.” There is a glimmer of something in her eyes. _Sympathy? Or pity?_

He stiffly nods and turns towards the door. He all but slams it behind him.

It is only when he is outside, ankle-deep in snow, does he realize there are tears on his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all the wonderful support, I simply couldn't resist updating so soon. Note that most updates will be sporadic though. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and I promise there's a lot more action (especially of the J/D kind) coming soon! As for when this takes place timeline-wise: post-ADWDish with a mix of Season 5/6 and let's assume that Stannis failed at marching to Winterfell and returned to Castle Black... what does this mean for our story, you may ask? We shall see ;)
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading and do let me know what you thought <3 
> 
> \- S


	3. iii

In his dreams, he is a man, a wolf, and then a man again.

It is the same dream most nights. He hears her words, clear as day. Her red eyes cut through him, as a sword does skin.

The night is young, the sky a shade of orange and red with wisps of white slicing through it. The ground beneath him is soft with mud and snow, and the trees that encircle him are tall and dark, blocks of charcoal.

He looks down at his hands, only to find them frozen. The ice is coarse and rough, beads of frost lining it like lace. When he flexes his fingers, it splinters as if glass. Underneath it, the thick sheen of blood catches his eye.

_Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel._

He opens his mouth to scream, but only hears a howl. When he looks down again, where had once been his feet is now snow. A raven _quork_ s, and he can _smell_ it.

Jon runs, his surroundings a blur. All the colors melt into one another, the wind slaps his face, and the smell of life, death, and the living fill him. He breathes in the musk of the earth and the reek of tender flesh and blood. The ground beneath him is soft and for the briefest of moments, he is free.

Coming to a stop, he can feel her before he sees her; her fiery hair elegantly windswept, her pale skin as unblemished as ever. The ruby around her neck pulsates, and when she opens her mouths, she glows.

Blinded by the light, he takes a step back, only to fall flat on his back. This time, when he rises, he is a man - yet the only feeling that registers is hollowness. He feels like one of Sansa's old dolls.

“Jon Snow,” the red woman intones, her voice echoing.

The ravens take up the cry as well. “ _Snow, snow, snow.”_ He sees the dark figures in the sky; they circle around him, akin to carrion crows around a corpse. The flapping of their black wings fills his ears, and their cries become screams.

“What do you want?” he manages to say. His voice reverberates in the silence, and he hears himself, half-confident and half-afraid. _Kill the boy and let the man be born._

When she laughs, the ground beneath his feet shakes. Her pale, thin fingers move and suddenly he is burning; what was once coldness becomes warmth; it creeps up and he feels it, feels _her._ He tries to take a step back, but finds he cannot budge.

“ _You know nothing, Jon Snow,”_ she whispers, and the trees whisper with her. _Nothing, nothing, nothing—_

The fire begins at her feet, and snakes up the folds of dress like vines around a tree. Her face sloughs off her bones, like wax dripping from candles, the blood a rich crimson that smokes in the night air. Another woman, another wound.

“D’you remember that cave?” Ygritte whispers.

 She isn’t truly the wilding girl, he sees, her hair is perfectly done and piled in the style of high ladies, and her clothes are of far finer silks than the red woman’s.  Her face is fair and, like the other woman’s, radiates _._ “We should’ve stayed in that cave . . .”

“Leave me be,” Jon spits, but it comes out more of a whisper than a command. “Leave me _be.”_ He fumbles for Longclaw, but pain shoots through him when he attempts to move. A grunt is all he manages.

“I saved you, Lord Snow,” she says, but no longer in Ygritte’s voice, but Melisandre’s. “I saved you, and yet you could not find it in yourself to save _me._  I warned you, Jon Snow. _I warned you.”_

The red-haired woman opens her mouth. A language spills from her lips like liquid. It is almost a song – a poisonous one meant to deafen, to drive mad.

The _quork_ s grow louder and more fervent. He barely has time to look up before they come onto him; their knife-like beaks peck at him, piercing flesh and drawing blood. They wrap around him like a cloak, their wings rough and they claws sharp. It is the voices, though, that are the worst.

“ _. . . you haggle like crone with a codfish, Lord Snow. Did Ned Stark father you on some fishwife?”_

_“. . .it should’ve been you . . .”_

_“ . . . stick ‘em with the pointy end . . .”_

_“. . . I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold . . .”_

_“ . . . for the Watch . . .”_

_“ . . .keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard’s heart and eat it . . .”_

_“ . . . turncloak, traitor’s son, bastard, bastard,_ bastard _. . .”_

Then he hears her. Through all of the voices and _quork_ s _,_ the screams and the flapping of wings, he hears her voice. It fills him with something, something he has never felt before, at least in these dreams.

 _This isn’t how it goes,_ he thinks to himself, astonished. _The same dream each night . . . why should this one be different from the rest?_

He feels fire, but not the kind that burns, but the kind that heals. She is speaking the same tongue as the red woman’s, but instead of it worsening the burn, it lessens it. The ravens melt off one by one, their wings becoming dark mud. The pain leaves as well, and at long last he sees her.

As she walks, the snows around her become pools of steaming water. Her silver hair is down and she wears a simple dress spun from what could be sugar or glass. On her head rests a glittering gold crown with three jeweled serpetine heads protruding from the top. Nevertheless, it is her face that leaves him even more breathless.

“Afraid, Jon Snow?” Daenerys Targaryen comments in that half-amused tone of hers. “Have no fear, my dragons do only as I command.”

It is only then he seems to notice the three hulking creatures behind her ( _how did I ever miss them?)._ They stand tall and ferocious; gold, green, black. The scales fold and glimmer, hypnotic and otherworldly. With their pools of molten gold and red, they eye him as a predator eyes prey.

“They’re beautiful,” he blurts before he can stop himself. As monstrous as they are, there is a certain . . . _splendor_ to these creatures.

“Yes,” she says, her voice rich with laughter. “I suppose they are.”

Gingerly, he takes a step towards her. Almost immediately, a rush of wind overtakes him and he is thrown back. He attempts to prop himself up with his hands, only to find them aflame.

Queerly, no scream comes to him. In fact, the flames almost tickle. He looks down at himself and is almost unfazed to find his black garb alive with dancing streams of red and orange. “Why don’t I—”

“—feel anything?” she finishes for him. A laugh escapes her. The sound is sweet and mellow in the silence. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

Confused, he looks up at her. “But I – Your Grace, I . . . I am no dragon.”

Daenerys Targaryen looks at him with a faint sad smile. “Oh,” she says, almost in a whisper, “you know nothing, Jon Snow.”

This time, when the flames surround him, he can feel them, and when he wakes, he screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Apologies for the delay. I haven't been very well as of late. I'm about to leave for university so everything has been and is a bit overwhelming. However, I do promise a shorter wait next time. I'm trying to get better. Anyways, thank you for reading! Do leave a few thoughts. I cherish each and every one.
> 
> Until next time (which will be soon I promise),  
> SH


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